


Hangovers and Hang ups

by sarahyellow



Series: Twelve Steps to Sober [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Little Bit Funny, Both Stiles' parents are dead, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, but only if intensely awkward situations amuse you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 07:38:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5120333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahyellow/pseuds/sarahyellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On one of the usual depressing Sundays after Peter and Stiles get drunk and hook up, Derek has serious suspicions and Scott is grossed out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hangovers and Hang ups

Stiles wakes up Sunday morning with a hell of a hangover and an empty bed. When he eventually tackles opening his eyes, he’s pleasantly surprised to see that the sun isn’t pouring in through the bedroom windows. A smirk pricks the edge of his lips despite all of the discomfort he’s in. Stiles knows that those blinds were open last night. He finds a glass of water and two Tylenol waiting for him on the bedside table too, and he sweeps them up in his hand. But he doesn’t think Peter should do such boyfriend-y things before he leaves.

He’s left, that much isn’t even in question. He always leaves, and Stiles likes it that way just as surely as Peter does. There hasn’t been a man in Stiles’ apartment in the last ten months that he wanted to spend the night. That’s just not the kind of sex he’s been having. It’s not the kind of life he’s been living. 

He has to get up and do something to feel better, so Stiles reaches for his phone and calls Scott. Predictably, Scott answers with a just-awoken-even-though-it’s-noon yawn, and asks, “M-what’s up?”

“Do you want to get hangover breakfast?” Stiles asks, standing up. He’s getting his jeans from last night and searching for some socks, and… Peter has thoughtfully cleaned up and put all the toys away. _Goddamn him_. “Bob Evans or IHOP?” he asks.

“But I’m not hungover,” Scott says sleepily into the phone. Then perhaps his brain boots up from hibernation because _Stiles has asked for yet another hangover breakfast_ , and Scott groans over the line. “Oh man. Stiiiles, no. You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t.” Stiles deadpans over the phone.

Scott groans harder. “Oh Christ, you did, didn’t you? Again? Ugh. So gross.”

“Just shut up and get over here. We’re going to Bob Evans.” 

 

Bob Evans smells like the sweet, loving embrace of Jesus. And that’s what it smells like to _Stiles_. He’s sure that to a non-hungover werewolf like Scott, it must smell even better. The restaurant is busy, full of families on a Sunday. They’ve gotten a booth in what used to be the smoking section because it’s quieter there, and right now Stiles is all about the quiet. He’s pouring himself his second cup of coffee to the disapproving stare from Scott. Stiles peeks up every once in a while to see if it’s gone—it hasn’t. “What?” he finally has to say, treating it like a joke. “I’m a grown-ass man. I can drink caffeine if I want to.”

“You have ADHD. You shouldn’t. And you know that’s not why I’m mad.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and forks some more of his scrambled eggs into his mouth. “You’re overreacting,” he mumbles through the mouthful. _Like you always do_ , he adds mentally. 

“Stiles: you’re _fucking_ Peter! _Peter_ Peter. Cruel, debased, still somewhat sociopathic, old PETER.”

Stiles chews another bite of food for like, ten full seconds. He swallows and says, “He’s not that old.”

“Oh my god.”

“Look I told you: it doesn’t mean anything. We’re just hooking up. You don’t have a problem when I sleep with other guys.”

If anything, Scott frowns deeper at this. “Actually I do. That’s all you do anymore is ‘hook up’ with one night stands. When did you become a one night stand guy?” _Ten months ago!_ Stiles wants to snap. But he doesn’t. Referencing his father’s death will just make Scott break out the pity eyes, and that’s no fun. Scott’s still talking, asking, “What happened to the Stiles who couldn’t like a girl like Lydia Martin without devoting his whole heart to her?” 

Stiles scowls, stealing one of Scott’s sausages as payback. “Low blow man. My high school crush, really?”

“Yeah well maybe you could use another crush. Maybe it’d do you good. Better than what you’ve _been_ doing. You think everyone doesn’t notice the bruises you go around with?” he asks, sounding nearly accusing.

Stiles holds his head high though, well aware that Scott is staring at the marks on his neck. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I already told you that so stop worrying about me.” He reaches across the table to get more coffee, and when Scott grabs his wrist to hold it still, he thinks it’s to tell him that two doses is enough. “OH MY GOD I can handle the coff—”

“What’s this?” Scott’s jaw is stiff and he’s staring at Stiles’ arm, at his inner forearm where there’s a new scratch; faint, but pretty much lined up parallel to all the other pink and white scars that go further up. When Scott’s eyes flash up to look at him, they flash red.

“Dude!” Stiles hisses with a glance around. “Don’t wolf out on the after-church crowd.”

“Tell me the TRUTH,” Scott says with his face still all screwed up. “You’re not cutting again are you?”

Stiles sits back in the booth, “Okay whoa! First off, you’re never supposed to ask mentally unstable people questions like that: ‘You’re not going to kill yourself, are you??!’” Stiles snorts derisively. “That’s the negative reverse, and that phrasing totally encourages denial. You’re supposed to say it like—”

“I don’t care how you’re supposed to say it!”

“Pftt.” Stiles looks put-out. “Well. I guess we know who _won’t_ be getting a job at a crisis hotline EVER.”

“Are. You. Cutting?”

“No!” Stiles yells quietly, nearly erupting out of his seat with emphasis. “Of course not you idiot.” He rolls his eyes like that’s the dumbest conclusion Scott could have ever come to—Even though it’s kind of _not_. “It’s just a sex injury. His nails got me by accident when he was—”

Scott slams his fingers in his ears. “NO! No thank you! Don’t need to hear it.” Once he ascertains that his best friend is not going to verbally relay some sort of horrible sexual detail involving Peter, he removes his fingers.

“And they say I’m the spaz,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

“Give me your hand,” Scott orders. And when Stiles does, he visually inspects the light scratch as if he’s caught wind that Ebola is going around.

“No signs of impending lycanthropy,” Stiles says snarkily. “Just a scratch. Barely.”

Satisfied, Scott releases him and they both go back to taking bites of their breakfasts. “I still don’t like it,” Scott mumbles around a bite of hash browns. “Any of it. You hooking up with strangers every week, you letting them hit you and… stuff.” Scott is unable to wince when he says, “And the thing with Peter is just so—”

“OH MY GOD,” Stiles mouths. “Stop talking about it and I will buy you the French toast special!” Stiles drinks when he gets with Peter for a reason. The idea is for it to be an irresponsible activity that he can forget about the next day. But Scott is making that really hard to do right now. “I didn’t realize I’d invited my best girlfriend to gossip about our love lives over breakfast!” Scott looks mildly offended at that, but takes the hint. From then on out Stiles is able to steer the conversation in more palatable directions.

 

Meanwhile, Peter’s just arrived at Derek’s new loft. He slides the door open and groans in despair at the bleak interior. “Hello to you too,” Derek greets from the kitchen.

Much like the one in Beacon Hills, the loft has its own brand of post war, soviet bloc charm. It’s also depressingly under furnished, but they’re working on that. For now, a dozen bean bag chairs cluttering the living room suffice for pack meeting nights. Derek’s managed to at least install a flat screen and Xbox for his frequent comer and goers, So Peter supposes they’re on a road to progress. “I’m here,” he says with a tone of wilted enthusiasm as he walks in. Derek is chopping something on a cutting board in the kitchen. Allison is there too, burrowing in one of the larger beanbags, and Peter can tell from her sniffles that she’s been crying. “So?” he asks. “What was so important that a simple phone call wouldn’t suffice?” He waggles his cellphone in hand. 

Allison is apparently not in a socializing mood, so Peter shrugs and goes over to Derek. The moment he’s there, leaning against the counter, Derek’s nose twitches and he makes a face as if he’s been egregiously offended. “ _What_ are you wearing?”

Peter looks down at himself. “What?” he shrugs. His phone gets set aside so that he can straighten his beautiful new jacket. “It’s Hugo Boss.”

“I meant the way that you smell,” Derek grits, not amused. “Wolfsbane?” In the living room, Allison peeks over the edge of her bean bag.

“I thought: a nice, floral scent for spring. Nothing too feminine though.” Peter grins. “You don’t like it?”

“You can take a shower after you tell me why you’re wearing cologne laced with one of the only things that’s poisonous to us,” Derek growls.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Oh don’t be so dramatic. Of course I didn’t realize it had wolfsbane in it. I’m not going to kill you.”

Derek’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “No. You’re lying.”

“About killing you?” Peter shrugs, “Maybe.”

“About realizing it. You’re purposefully masking your scent. Why?”

Peter averts his eyes coyly. “Oh come on Derek, I have a _personal_ life of my own on Saturday nights you know.” He leers over his shoulder at Allison, and she’s quick to go back to hiding in the bean bag. To Derek, he simply says, “I wasn’t planning on having to come over and help my favorite failwolf of a nephew sort out pack problems so early on a Sunday.”

“And whatever you were doing last night involves something that you can’t have any of us smelling on you?”

Peter gives him _a look_. “Let’s not discuss such topics in front of a lady.” He means Allison, of course.

Derek doesn’t take his bait. “What did you do? Did you kill someone? You're trying to cover up the smell of blood, aren't you?” 

Peter laughs. “Should I be insulted that that’s the first thing you suspect me of?”

“Who?” Derek repeats, apparently convinced that Peter’s killed someone. “Isaac?”

Allison shoots up from the bean bag chair. “What?! You think... him?!”

“What?” Peter is thoroughly confused. “Isaac’s dead?”

Behind in the living room, Allison can be heard starting to cry again. Derek folds his arms, tight-lipped. “We don’t know. That’s why I had you come over. He’s been missing since the reconnaissance on the witches last night.”

“I didn’t kill Isaac,” Peter huffs. 

“Who then?!” Derek’s got Peter’s cell phone snatched up off the counter before he can stop him. “Boyd said that Isaac stepped away to take a call and then he never returned.” He’s thumbing into the call history as he speaks. “The last call you made last night was…” His words die out and he goes stock still.

“Shit,” Peter hisses when he realizes what Derek’s found.

“'Stilinski Brat',” Derek reads the contact name hollowly. He meets Peter’s eyes, disbelief turning to potential rage. “Stiles?”

“What?!” Allison yips from the living room.

“Shut up,” Peter tells her. “Dear god, how much longer do we have to put up with the emotional overdrive version of her?”

Derek isn’t laughing. He’s around the counter in a heartbeat, shoving Peter against it and burying his face in the other man’s neck while he uses the knife he’d been chopping with to keep him in place. “I thought you didn’t like my cologne,” Peter says in annoyance, jerking away from Derek when he lets him. “Satisfied?” he asks. He’s nervous though, and it shows.

Derek’s still got the knife out, but it’s kind of superfluous after he beta shifts. “You smell like him,” he growls in a voice that’s hardly human anymore. He throws the knife so hard that it embeds into the far wall.

Peter winces. “Derek, you _just_ signed the lease to this place.”

“Did you kill him?!”

“No!”

Either Derek really thinks he’s lying or else the answer just doesn’t matter. Derek’s the pack alpha and he’s charging at Peter, ready to start a fight. “Why is he all over you then?! Where is he? Is he hurt?”

They scuffle. Peter manages to punch Derek right in the face before Derek throws him through the air. Now, Peter can deal with Derek roughing him up, but when he gets the back of his brand new, one thousand dollar jacket scratched up against concrete because Derek just CANNOT accept a healthy lie, Peter is forced to push back. He cannot sacrifice Hugo Boss for this secret. “Fuck!” he growls once he’s shifted into beta form just like Derek. “Get back! I. didn’t. kill him.”

“How can I believe that?! Why are you hiding his scent? What did you do to him last night?!”

Peter gets fed up. “I Didn’t kill him! I fucked him, alright?!” He pants, blue eyes burning at Derek’s red ones as they stand there in silence.

Derek bears his teeth and rushes him.

It takes a few punches and some choice words before Peter is able to stop the attack long enough to clarify that _no_ , he hasn’t raped Stiles.

After that, it just becomes an extremely awkward series of questions and answers.


End file.
